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"MES AMOURS:" 



(poems: (paBBxonatc (Xnt (]pf<xgfuf 



WRITTEN TO ME BY PEOPLE CELEBRATED AND OBSCURE 

AND 
MY A ANSWERS TO SOME OF THEM 



WITH AN INTRODUCTION AND NOTES. 



Selina Dolaro 



L^A7notir .est enfant de Bohi)ne ! 

—Carmen. 



CHICAGO AND NEW YORK 
BELFORD, CLARKE & COMPANY 
i! 



75)^^^^i, 



-^%'\ 



Copyright, 1SS7, by 
BELFORD, CLARKE & COMPANY 



PREFATORY EXCURSION BY WAY OF EX- 
PLANATION AND APOLOGY. 



During the happy years that I acted as the servant of a 
public that appreciated my efforts in that direction, I was a 
continual target for the metrical effusions of people— known 
and unknown— who sought by this means to make the ac- 
quaintance of that mysterious thing, "a popular actress;" 
and I frequently preserved them. On receipt of these verses 
I often felt myself in a position to criticise them, and even 
to correct their errors of orthograpliy, syntax, metre, rhyme, 
and rhythm ; and, as a not unnatural result, I woke one day 
like Hafiz, the Persian dreamer, "stringing pearls of verse." 
The rhymes I received and the rhymes I wrote, I have at 
length determined to collect and publish. 

It may be that I render myself liable to criticism in ac- 
ceding to the requests which have been made me to publish 
these^'verses and sketches— caricatures literary and artistic, I 
might say— that have been sent me from time to time. But 
as 'drcumstances are always allowed to alter cases, I claim 
"circumstances" (in fact, with a certain political faction, I 
"claim everything"). Few persons are privileged to read 
their virtues, abilities, and attractions extolled in ante- [by 
way of post-] mortem notices, written in anticipation of 
immediate dissolution. Such was my fate. For the first 
time I learned that I was clever and beautiful. Dangerous 
things to tell a woman ! True, I was expected to take my 
leave of this mundane sphere respectably, pathetically, and, 



6 PREFATORY EXCURSION. 

above all, immediately. It really was my duty to have done 
so. I must admit a want of tact on this occasion. I have, as 
a rule, a keen sense of the fitness of things, but the fitness of 
this particular thing was altogether too fit ; and, in spite of 
the very pretty funeral mine would have been (for it was not 
long since I had appeared on the stage looking very young 
and — etc., as above), I behaved most inconsiderately, and con- 
tinued to live. Henceforth I became a curiosity, and poor 
mankind became my victim. There is a charming uncertainty 
as to when my picturesque end will come — a delightful ex- 
pectancy of my final coup dc tJiedtre — that affords me immu- 
nity from all rules. These are my "circumstances." So much 
by way of explanation. 

I have always been a trial to my friends, but this last de- 
parture of mine is, I am bound to admit, cruel. That I should 
write a play was bad, very bad — my only excuse was that I 
knew something of the stage ; but to scatter doggerel in my 
wake (not in the Hibernian sense) is still worse. I can offer 
no valid reason for, no palliation of, my offence. However, the 
sooner I am cured the better ; and what better cure could I 
find than the gentle (I am sure) but determined " sitting-on " 
I shall get for my temerity ? From my poor friends I ask for- 
giveness. To my enemies I dedicate that portion of this 
volume which comes from my pen, as a sufificient retribution. 

In the notes I have endeavoured to record truthfully my 
impressions on receiving said verses, and the feelings that 
prompted me to retort in doggerel of my own. It is un- 
necessary for me to say that I think the former are good and 
the latter bad. Anyone can say that. 

Selina Dolaro. 

New York, November, 1887. 



CONTENTS. 



Prefatory Excursion by Way of Explanation and Apology, 
Contents, ....... 



PAGE 

5 



OTHER PEOPLE'S. 



Ma Belle Amie, . . . . • 






II 


A Question, ...... 






13 


A Memory, ...... 






16 


Your Birthday, . . . . . 






18 


Your Birthday, .... 






20 


To Mahmoure on her Birthday, 






22 


On the Sun-blackened Proof of a Photo, 






24 


A Photograph, ..... 






27 


Let It Be Soon, .... 






29 


From my Fly-Leaves, .... 






• 30 


A Question, ..... 






• 32 


A Dream-Wish, .... 






• 34 


The Imagining of a Fevered Imagination, 






• 35 


The Answer, ..... 


. 




. 37 



8 CONTENTS. 






PAGE 


A Legend of King William Street, 


• 39 


Lonely, but not Alone, 


. 41 


Retrospective, ..... 


• 43 


Les Accroche-Cceurs, .... 


. 46 


Reverie, ...... 


48 


After, 


• 51 


Erotic Chestnuts, .... 


• 53 



MY OWN. 



A Consolation, 

A Word of Interpolated Apology, 

My Question, 

His Confessor, . 

A Fragment, 

The Tragedy, . 

To Unacted Authors, 

D. C, 

Postscript, 

Au Revoir, 



57 
59 
60 
61 
62 
64 
67 
69 
72 



OTHER PEOPLE'S. 



MA BELLE AMIE. 

feeiSror? tho:o;g;iy iT:^:erTe ''" T 't 'r ■"^' '^''^^^^^'"^' - ^ ^°"' ^^^ 

„ ,■ iiiuruugmy ^<7->' adorer. He resembles the degenerate onp<; ;., <'TK« \\r . 



I do not love you in the least, 

This is a poetical form of the words " without DreiiidirP " th,f , i 

puts on h.s letters when he's afraid .rconfprTmlse himsefff '""^^'" 

Ma belle amie ; 
That sentiment long since has ceased, 

Ma belle amie. 
And yet there's something near my heart 
That hurts a little when we part ; 
'Tis sweet, and yet it leaves a smart, 

Simile: The Christmas cracker. 

Afa belle amie! 

II. 

Your cheek is soft, and fair to see, 

My sentiments exactly, on reading the first verse. 

Ma belle ajiiie ; 
Your lips are sweet— too sweet for me. 

Ma belle amie. 
I long, and yet I fear to press 
That bosom in my wild caress 
Lest I should love you more— or less. 

This circumspection is the philosophy of bards. 

Ma belle amie ! 



"MES AMOURS." 



III. 



Since Friendship seems a trifle cold, 

This should have been headed "The Lay of the Lazy Lover.' 

Ma belle a?nte ; 
And Love, you say, would be too bold, 

Ma belle amie ; 
We'll split the diff'rence 'twixt the two, 
And feel— just as the Angels do : 
That is — I hardly know — do you ? 

Ma belle amie ! 



After-thought. — Verj' charming and non-committal, like the trousers purchased by a frugal 
mamma for her eldest boy, with a view to the " wrong side" for purposes of turning and alter- 
ing for the youngest. 



A QUESTION. 



Note. — A poem written by a bard who caused himself to be presented to me after the per- 
formance of " La Perichole." One of the few copies of verse that show internal evidence of 
having been written for me alone. A very insidious form of poem, as it leaves one complete 
liberty of action — a liberty that one is bound to misuse. 



Was it a chance — or Providence — or what 

That, on that fateful niglit, 
Led my vague footsteps to tlie magic spot 

Thatjv// filled in with light? 

Why do bards ask these sort of questions ? Is it because they scan 
easily, or is it the natural and irresponsible curiosity of bards ? 



Was it a chance — mere waywardness of yours — 

That caused your smile to say 
That I was different to the gaping boors 

Was there ever a man who didn't think this ? 

Who came to see your play ? 

Good ! This assumption is good, because by giving one the chance 
to tell the bard he is mistaken, he prompts one to say he is right, 
and thank him for saving one trouble. 



At least I read that message in them then ; 

And, though I laughed to think 
That I — the worst-used, bitterest of men — 

Should find another brink 



14 " MES AMOURS." 

Of love to tremble on, yet in my heart 

I knew the laugh untrue : 
I saw the actress play the soulless part, 

But through her I sawjw/. 



Very delicate and insinuating, and all the more charming as I don't 
think any other woman ever had this particular poem. 



Behind La Pericliole I knew there lived 

A woman — "nobly planned " — 
Oh ! that grand night, when I so well contrived 

To touch your little hand ! 

It -.vas clever. If I remember rightly, he was presented, [I think, out 
of spite,] by a man who hated him. A grand " send-ofF" for a 
man, if he only knew. 



And you ? Were " profits " in your mind just then, 

Or was it but — caprice ? 
Was I an unit 'mongst the amorous men 

Who came to see your piece ? 

The bard is mistaken. I had no financial interest in the play. 



Or was it different ? Before 'tis o'er — 
Our little dream of love — 

" Dream"' is good, but "my" would have been better. 

And I must pass outside your jealous door. 
And know you sit above. 

Bless me ! does he mean when I am dead ? 



Forgetting me — on purpose — putting me 
Out of your life as vain — 

Apparently not. Thanks ! 



A QUESTION. 15 

Tell me the truth, my Dolly — can it be 
That I was loved again ? 

What a question ! And from a man, too, who knew his Ba)zac by- 
heart ! 



After-thought. — Prettily composed, but rather an unwise poem to send. Not suffi- 
ciently proprietary and deprecating — two quahties that ought always to "jump to the eyes" 
concomitantly in an amateur love-effusion. Still, as I said in the Note, this gives one a dan- 
gerous latitude of action. 



A MEMORY. 

[After Dolly had called upon ime.] 



Note. A clever poem, because it unites within itself three magic qualities : First, it is of the 

adaptable kind, and may be sent to anyone on account of its impersonality ; second, it expresses 
a state of rabid adoration without calling for any responsive effort on one's own part ; and third, 
it is a purely ex-parte statement (to speak legally), and does not pretend to assume that one 
in any way reciprocates the delirium one has produced. 



A perfumed delirium steals thro' the air, 

As I sit here alone, and the fire-light dies ; 
And you stand here again, with your exquisite hair, 

Quite right not to compromise himself on color. 

With your passionate lips and your pleading eyes. 



It was here that you sat — if I stretch out my hand 
I can almost believe that I toucii you again ; 

Like the hunger-mad sailor who springs for the land 
That he sees in his madness — but springs for in vain. 

Expressive, this ! 



Do mad people knoiu they are mad — do you think ? 

And do the dead know they are dead ? — tell me this : 
I care not ! for I should be willing to sink 

Into madness or death 'neath the spell of your kiss. 

I wonder well, never mind, I think I'll let this verse go as it is. 



A MEMORY. ' 17 

You're here once Jigain — leaning back in this chair, 
And I am content to crouch here at your knee ; 

In the flesli you are distant — but what do I care 

That your body is there, since yoiu- soul is with me. 

A most convenient lover— would that there were more like unto him ! 



I hold you still closer — your breatli on my cheek 
Drives the blood througli my veins like a torrent of flame, 

Whilst /dare not breathe. If my soul could but speak. 
The Echoes Eternal would answer jv/zr name. 

Again very cleverly uncompromittal ! A very cautious bard. A swain 
once shouted my name at an echo, and it answered nothing but 
"Jolly" and ''Folly." 



And now? It is morning — you're still in my grasp. 
As I shut close my door ; and I put out my light, 

And I lie here. Alone ? Do you think I unclasp 

My arms from your neck ? — do I bid you " Good-night ?" 

Ah, no ! 



After-thought.— If all bards had the imagination, and resources within themselves for self- 
delusion, that this one had. nous autresfetnvies would lead a much pleasanter and male exist- 
ence. The one dreadful danger of the above is that its luridity and sultriness, and yet perfect 
contentment, tempt one to "make an experience," saying, "That's all very well, but {/—etc., 
etc." 



YOUR BIRTHDAY. 



Note. — A patent title ; like all the finest patents, valuable on account of its supreme simplicity 
— a title that covers a multitude of sins. This poem, however, is designed for sending when the 
"affaire" is in full swing, and has a taste of spurious eternity ; very pleasant, even when one 
has " been there before," so to speak. 

I. 

Your birthday ! To think you were living 

For years before now : it is queer, 
For I — to my friends — have been giving 

The date of my birtli as tJiis year ; 

An antique sentiment, but always pleasant. The only man who ever 
said it truthfully was Adam. 

And yet I am older than you ! 

)'ide supra, concerning Adam. 

My theory's riglit, and it's pleasant ; 

Put by that old bogey, the Past : 
We only are made for the Present, 

To live while each new love can last. 

Verse warranted to kill in the earlier stages, when one is afraid of 
being bored. 

We're not a year old, dear, we two ! 



II. 

We were born, when your soft hand in mine, dear, 

Was clasped on that glorious day ; 
When we vowed that our lives must combine, dear, 

Whatever the world might say — 

[And what is the world when you woo ? ] 

Deadly irresponsibility apparently, but quite harmless in the majority 
of cases. 



YOUR BIRTHDAY. 19 

We shall live while our hearts bent together, 

A summer of tlow'ry delight ; 
And what need we care for tiie weather, 

When all in our hearts is so bright ? 

Our sunshine is there, sweet, in voit I 

Very previsioiial ; leaves independence of action in reserving the right 
to say, some-day, " Vou put the light out." 



III. 

If the life we are only beginning. 

With the love that has caused it, should fail ; 
There are lovers more worthy the winning, 

So why should my darling bewail ? 

Irresponsible humility ; very reassuring when one isn't quite sure of 
one's self. 

The Present is sweet and is true ! 
Away with the Future ! Its pages 

May turn by themselves : you and I 
By kisses alone mark the ages — 
Too happy to think or to die. 

We're not a year old, dear, we two ! 



After-thought. — A master-piece of preliminary poetry. Can only be written, however, 
before you have had "scenes." Resembles, in many respects, the full blaze of a theatre-chan- 
delier, which outshines the tiny, everlasting flame that lights all the others when the gas is turned 
on, but goes on burning when la grande Jiainiiie is dead. 



YOUR BIRTHDAY. 



Note. — A great rarity, and therefore presented almost without comment. A genuine poem, 
which means what it says— the kind of verses one beheves in, if one wants to. 



Another year begun ! It seems 
So strange to think that you and I 

Must be together but in dreams, 
Until the months have wearied by. 



We have some mem'ries that are sweet 
And in my dreams I see again 

Those loving eyes, those iips I meet 
In kisses that are almost pain. 



For — in them — all my heart goes out 
To meet the heart that beats for me. 

Oh, darling ! I begin to doubt 
If I can bear my misery. 



I ivant you ! All the world is cold, 
And at your heart I fain would rest ; 

My cares are hung'ring to be told ; 
My head, to pillow on your breast. 



YOUR BIRTHDAY. 

Was there a time — it scarce can be — 
When you and I had never met ; 

Had never let the minutes tlee, 
And found it glory to forget. 

Your birthday ! Let the years go past— 
Our love, my sweet, is young and strong ; 

And wheti we meet to break our fast. 
Our feast of kisses shall be loner. 



T/iat shall your birthday be ! T/iis year 
We will expunge with all disdain : 

When next I kiss away your tear, 
Then, darling, we will live again. 



Aftkr-thought.— He meant it. 



TO MAHMOURE ON HER BIRTHDAY, 



Note. — This was written by a bard who was also an Oriental and who called me Mahmoure 
because he said that I reminded him of the Eastern houris of his dreams. I never complained 
much, though I always had an idea that the said young ladies were not altogether proper per- 
sons to talk about — conime si rieii fi'etait .' 

My Dear Mahmoure : 

Wliat day has more worth 
Than this of all others, the day of your birth? 

An awkward thing to say to many women if they are likely to compare 
notes, which ihey generally are. 

Ah ! would that in language both witty and terse 
I could honour th'occasion in apposite verse. 



How strangely propitious the skies must have been, 
At the moment you made your debut on this scene — 
On that day when each 'osophy, 'mancy, and 'ology 
"Took aback seat," giving place to Astrology. 

For surely your charms must be mainly dependant 
On Planets that happened to be " in ascendant," 
When most of them said, "We regret that between us 
We ne'er can produce such perfection as Venus : 
For none of us can give our children such graces, 
Such movements, such manners, such figures, such faces ; 

" Que tious eussiQiis le temps de corriger nos eprcuz'es^ — Old StorYi 

Tho' the world may admire our work when 'tis done, 
'Tis the children of Venus who have 'all the fun.' " 

He is doubtless riaht — after all, what is mere astronomical correctness 
to a bard in full swing of bard-ment ? 



TO MAHMOURE ON HER BIRTHDAY. 23 

True, /was not there, so I cannot remember 

What stars " ruled " the -sky 'twixt July and September ; 

Good ! August is a difficult word to find a rhyme to. 

But surely that sky must have been wondrous bright, 
With planets propitious that day — or that night. 



How do I know ? Kindly pause to reflect 

That I've e'er been a student of " cause and effect ;" 

This is enough to make Dugald Stewart turn in his grave, and turn 
Herbert Spencer's hair white, were it not that he has liardly any 
and what he has is aheady white ! 

And the happiest hours I've known — this is f>-i/e — 
Have been spent by the side, dear Mahmoure, oi you. 



After-thought. — I wonder if this is a patent-adaptable one. It sounds like it. There is 
a dangerous impersonrility about it, which is not conducive to implicit confidence in its " unique- 
ness." 



ON THE SUN-BLACKENED PROOF OF A 
PHOTO, FOUND IN A NOVEL LENT ME 
BY DOLLY. 



Note. — Nothing like a photo to inspire verse — one can take one's time over it. If one sits 
and gazes at a thing long enough, one becomes fascinated — psychological fact, not claimed as 
original. A proof obliterated by exposure to the li^ht is treasure- trove to an adorer — the 
"flotsam, jetsam, and walend " of love ; though he knows it is one's own, it makes a great oppor- 
tunity for a scene de jalousie. 



You lent me a favourite book, Dolly, 

Yestre'en, when you bade me "Good-night !" 

Ere you lend one a book, you should look, Dolly, 
To see that that book is " all right." 

This is the one valuable point contained in this poem. Experto crede, 
as the Latin grammar says. 

You liadn't touched this for an age, Dolly — 

For five years at least, perhaps more — 
And turning a page — to my rage — Dolly, 

A photo dropped out on the floor ! 
And I sat and I glared at that thing, Dolly, 

And thought, " Whose the deuce can it be ? " 

So do I. I haven't an idea. 

When I show you that thing, will it bring, Dolly, 
Recollections that are not of me ? 

Probably. 

I "snorted," in picking it up, Dolly 

['Twas red, and I felt like a bull] ; 
But I frankly confess that my cup, Dolly, 

Of mortification was full, 



ON THE PROOF OF A PHOTO. 25 

And 1 wished that I'd let it lie there, Dolly ; 

'Twas 7ioi a sensation of fun, 
When I found nothing there, foul or fair, Dolly — 

'Twas a proof that had been in the sun ! 

How wondrous are the works of Providence ! 

Perhaps it bore your pretty face, Dolly, 
Or that of Lord A or young B ? 

Perhaps. 

Would that I could efface ev'ry trace, Doll}', 

Of that image, that wasn't of nic ; 
But the sun had completed his task, Dolly — 

There wasn't a line to be seen. 

/ ide supra, concerning Providence. 

I only can ask, " 'Neath this mask, Dolly, 
What face — years ago — might have been ? " 

I should like to imagine 'twas _)w/;-.s-, Dolly ; 
But ah ! I can hardly believe 

That of photo of yours — you have scores, Dolly, 
A proof in your " pet book " you'd leave. 

The author was a person of keen perceptive facuhies. 

There isn't much doubt in my mind, Dolly, 

That here was the face of some swain 
To whom you were kind — which you'll find, Dolly, 

Not hard to call up once again. 

This is an error. 

And you'll not hold this knowledge aloof, Dolly, 

When I ask when this love you forsook ; 
Had you fled from his roof, when this proof, Dolly, 

You kept and preserved in his book ? 

Haven't the shghtest idea. I fancy he hadn't a roof! 



Dolly s Answer. 
Lord bless you ! 'twas a photograph of me — no doubt a 

fright — 
Of which I only had the proof, and left it in the light ; 



26 "MES AMOURS." 

I sat for it, no doubt, one day, entirely forgetting 
That " All pictures must be paid for [horrid rule] at time of 
seiimg." 

[^So the finished photos never came home, and I stuck that 
in t hie re as a book-marker. Thaf s all !\ 



After-thought. — The answer, though ungrammatical and prevaricatory, is the only one pos- 
sible under the circumstances. I expect the author didn't care much one way or the other, but 
merely thanked the "proof" for a grand opportunity to sling ink at me. 



A PHOTOGRAPH. 



Note. — Another photo-poem. There is no doubt Daguerre has a great deal to answer for 
in this matter of amateur effusions apropos of photographs. This is another of the patent- 
adaptable form of poem — may be sent to any one and at any time. Specially recommended for 
young or disappointed bards. 

Why do you mock me, dear, with this-— 

The face I ne'er may see again, 
The lips I ne'er again may kiss — 

Why do you send me so much pain ? 



I sit and watch the sweet Hps part ; 
I almost see them smile for me : 

A pretty thought, and very acceptable — saves one a deal of personal 
trouble. 

But in the picture there's no heart — 
I doubt if there's a heart in thee. 

A common reproach, psychologically insulting, and pathologically in- 
correct. 



The little foot peeps underneath 

That frock I've seen my darling wear — 

The author had evidently been reading Sir I'homas Suckling : 
" Her feet beneath her petticoat 

Like little mice peeped in and out," etc. 

Ah, Sweet, these memories are death ; 
Your loss is more than I can bear ! 



Come back to me, and be mine own, 

This sounds famihar. 

And all the world shall count as naught ; 



28 "MES AMOURS." 

Within my heart you reign alone, 
The queen of me in every tliought. 

The two "telling" lines of the poem. 

Come back to me ! I cry in vain ; 

Come back to me ! in vain I pray : 
Your photograph, in dumb disdain, 

Reminds me you are far away. 



After-thought. — An incontrovertible poem, though obviously a mixture of truism and 
paradox. Strange that men can be so inconsistent as to live after writing such verses as these. 



LET IT BE SOON. 



Note. — For a brief hour I was very proud of this ; for it was sent me by a very celebrated 
dramatist and song-writer, with an introductory note connecting it with a visit he paid me on 
the banks of the Thames. I subsequently found that he had sent it to every lady in the party, 
and, worse still, had pubhshed it as a song. It was then that I began to doubt the sex which has 
foolishly been called the stronger. 



Let it be soon ! Life was not made to long 

For far-off liours in dim futurity. 
Thy presence soothes me like some distant song. 

Oh ! where my head has rested, let it lie. 

Pretty, and calculated to advance matters with a rush. This seems to 
assume that the author is nu dernier hien ; and when one expost- 
ulates he can shelter himself behind poetic license — in more senses 
than one — and the fevered imagination of the bard. 

Hope is the morning, Love the afternoon. 

Let it be soon ! 



Let it be soon ! The treasured daylight dies, 
And changes sadly to the chill of night ; 

But summer reigns forever in thine eyes, 
And at thy touch grief stealeth out of sight. 

A potent argument, and warranted to kill if not too freely diffused. 
This was too freely diffused. 

After these years of longing, let Love swoon. 

Let it be soon ! 



After-thought. — An ideal poem for "general" use. Should be copied in manifold, and 
carried continually for distribution at critical intervals ; but should be distributed to people who 
don't know one another, as it is the kind of poem that women always show one another — in con- 
fidence. 



FROM MY FLY-LEAVES. 



Note. — A well-known author of my acquaintance has been in the habit of sending me his 
books as they come out, with little verses dedicatory scribbled on their fly-leaves. I have singled 
out these two as being the most complimentary and pretty, and the answer to the first as being 
clever though rude. 



From the Fly-Leaf of a Book that I " interrupted " by 
MAKING HIS Acquaintance. 

The first part is dull — because then I knew not 
The genius of life that you hold in each look ; 

Tlie last part is duller — to know you I'd got, 

And, knowing you, how could I think of my book ? 



[I lent the book to a juvenile bard who cherished the superstition that 
he had adored me, but that I was false and faithless — idiosyncra- 
cies, both of them. On seeing the above, he dipped his pen in gall 
and wrote the following.] 



Oh ! why should the thoughts of the false little Doll 
Interfere with the course of constructing a vol. ? 
Hawk preys not on hawk ; brother bothers not brother ; 
Why should one piece of fiction embarrass another ? 

After-thought. — Lovely ! 



FROM MY FLY-LEAVES. 31 



From the Fly-Leaf of a subsequent Work, at the "con- 
struction " OF WHICH I assisted. 



Though critics may deride, dear, 
Though few the readers be ; 

I wrote it by your side, dear. 
And that's enouafh for me. 



Another. 

The critics say the world's not so. 
And call me cynical and snarling ; 

But then, one fact they did not know- 
I wrote it ere I knew thee, Darling. 



After-thought. — The great charm of snap-verses of this kind lies in the fact that the 
bard has to come to the point at once, so cannot shelter himself behind the periphrastic ambig- 
uousness which is, at once, the privilege and the protection of bards. 



A QUESTION. 



Note Another title recommended as patent, on account of its adaptability ; it seems to 

be based on the advice of the philosophic luminary who said, " If you want to inculcate a fact 
of which you are yourself not quite certain, state it boldly, but interrogatively." 



D Y, has it ever crossed your thoughts 

Leave blank for name, and alter to suit metre. 

That we were made for one another ? 

It certainly had not struck me in that light. 

Had something else been otherwise, 

Deliciously vague, this. 

We might have lived and loved together ? 

Possibly ? The " premises " are too vague to allow of definite reply. 

'Tis said that in this world below 
Each soul would find a sister-half, 
If only they knew where to meet — 

Surely, there are lots of places ? 



But better never meet at all 

Than thus to meet— and meeting, part ! 

Parfaitcment ! 

Can it be true that you will never, dear, 

Unbind that glossy hair for me ? 

Can it be true I ne'er again shall press 

Impassioned kisses on your lips ? 

Or lay my cheek upon that polished arm ? 

" Cheek " was a dangerous word to have used- 
Can this be true, whilst knowing luhat I know? 

Classic uncertainty again. 



A QUESTION. Z2, 

I dream of yoii and watch your portrait's eyes, 
In foolish hope that tliey will turn on me, 
In silly craving they might smile on me. 



The convict feels a lighter chain, 

Who hopes for future liberty : 

But I — my Darling, give /iic hope ! 

The awful commonplace of life 

Must separate, for weeks, for months, for years 

But tell, " Sweet Sister-half," that I have found 

When next we meet, will you say, " Neve r- mo re ? 

I dun't even know now, as we never met a£;ain. 



After-thought. — The tumultuous " Walt-Whilman-esqueness " of this "measured prose" 
is not without its charm, but this, as a whole, is deprecatory with the wrong sort of deprecation. 
Humility should always be arrogant (pardon the paradox ! ), otherwise it is apt to miss fire. If 
I remember rightly, this missed fire. 

3 



A DREAM-WISH. 



Note. — And it really deserves to be fulfilled, for it is the least exigeant poem I have 
ever had hurled at me. One feels inclined to say, like the lady in the French play, whose lover 
announces his intention of going into the business of thinking only of her, to whom she replies, 
cordially, '■^ Faites-donc ! Faites-donc !" 

I. 

When sleep rests on my eyelids, and the train 

Of fairy fancies from the realm of dreams 

Comes with its wand to stir my drowsy brain, 

And wake my senses to the golden gleams 

Of joyous scenes that make my sleep more sweet. 
My happiness is made the more complete 
If in my dreams I see thy face again. 

How easy it is to give pleasure to one's fellow-creatures if one would 
only take the trouble ! 



11. 

I'd never Avake if thou wouldst but abide 
In dreamland evermore, and lovingly 

Wouldst nestle close and trusting at my side, 
And give thyself with all thy heart to me. 

For, waking, I might find thee cold and stern- 

Probabiy ! 

A goddess, on whose altar I might burn 
My heart to ashes, and gain naught beside. 



After-thought. — This also is rather the lay of a lazy lover. I told him so, and he sent me 
a hundred verses, which, on the death of two compositors, I have finally decided not to print. 



THE IMAGINING OF A FEVERED IMAGINA- 
TION. 



Note. — The author of the foUovvhig lines might just possiby have saved himself by their title, 
but he didiCt risk it, i.e., I never knew who wrote them, though I have compared the writing with 
hundreds of others ; and I give them as the most piano specimens of dozens like unto them — 
only worse — that I have received from unknown bards with equally convenient (for me and them) 
imaginations. 



They praise the shape of thy form so fair, 

An inferior line ; but he hadn't yet settled down to his stride, I suppose. 

Sweet Mistress, mine ; 
Tliy coral lips, thine auburn hair, 

And eyes that shine ! 
But these charms thro' a dull, cold veil they see, 

By order of the Lord Chamberlain. 

And that veil is lifted alone for me — 

When the rich brown mass of thy glossy hair 

[Its waves unbound], 
Sheds o'er thy beauty a mantle rare, 

Floating around, 
Striving to hide, with envious skill. 

Thy bosom soft and glowing, 
White as the snow, without its chill, 

What an imagination ! 

While far beneath the wild veins thrill. 
Like Hecla's lava flowing. 

/ put in "Hi-cla ; " Jie said " Hector" but I don't think there's a volcano 
— or a moth — of that name. 



Tis mine to divide each glossy tress, 
From that scjft and yielding form ; 



36 "MES AMOURS." 

'Tis mine alone to hear thy sigh 

At passion's height, 
When flames, as if electric, fly. 
Convulse the frame, illume the eye. 

Edisonian, to say the least of it. N.Ij. — This verse has been a good 
deal Bowdlerized. 

Their hearts, their very souls, tliey'd give 
For this short hour with thee : 

In this short liour with thee I live 
A whole Eternity. 

In imagination— as per title — bieii entendu ! 



After-thought. — And this is the kind of trash that is '"metred" out (excuse me!) to 
any popular actress who appears — well — on the stage instead of in a box at the opera, — by 
the yard. 



THE ANSWER. 



Note. — This was sent me by a boy, who had, in a moment of agony, confessed to me some 
terrible passages in his early life. As I really cared a little for him, I was able to comfort him. 
somewhat, and ne.xt day sent him the verses on page 6. This was his answer, written with 
the messenger-boy looking over his shoulder. 



Tell me, dear Love, have you ever reflected 

On how you have brightened this hard life of mine ? 

Tell me, my Sweet, if you ever expected 

To make an existence so wretched, divine ? 

Very complimentary, even if he didn't mean it. 



Can you conceive how I lived ere I met you ? 

Yes, perfectly. 

Can you imagine a life without love ? 

Well, — I don't know. 

Dear, if you can, you know well why I've set you 
All women who walk upon earth, far above. 

A very easy remark to make. 



May you ne'er dream of the sickening sorrow 
With which all my loveless "to-days " had been rife. 
Till a wretched " to-day " turned a glorious " to-morrow," 
As your voice and your touch stirred my dead soul to life. 

And this j'^//! have done for me, Dolly. Ah, never 
Forget that 'twas you broke the links of my chain. 

What a responsibility ! and how dangerous ! A woman never breaks 
a man's chain but she makes her own. 



38 -'MES AMOURS." 

And that all lies with you ; shall I live thus forever ? 
Or must I go back to the old life again ? 

As if you'd go if I sent you. 



Come always to me in your thoughts, and remember 
That here there beats always a heart that is true ; 

Oh ! man, man ! " Always," indeed ! 

And bid memory chaunt of that month of September, 
When first you saw wf, and at last I met yon. 

Humility very delicately expressed. A most deadly line, implying;, as 
it does, a life passed in endless struggles to this end. I can almost 
hear him sigh as he says " at last." 



And, Sweetheart, if ever your courage should waver. 
When I've gone away and the years onward roll. 
Be strong for )iiy sake ; for if you are o'ertaken, 
I'm bound to fall too, since I've left you my Soul ! 

This is the sort of verse most women would give their souls to believe. 



After-thought. — Really very pretty, and a very dangerous poem to receive. It appeals 
to the maternal instinct, which, even if unexpressed, is so strong with "us." At the same time 
there is in the above an apparent readiness to make the best of "anything" that is calculated 
to find a weak spot in the barricade against the natural enemy, if such weak spot e.xist. 



A LEGEND OF KING WILLIAM STREET. 
MAY, 1879. 

Note. — I hesitated about including these verses, as they are purely local ; but their clever- 
ness and " Gilbertian" audacity of rhyme decide me to print them. It was at the Folly, in Kin^ 
William Street, Strand, that I played La Perichole, and first met the author of these lines. 

There came from Pali-Mall a poor, desolate diner-out ; 
His clothes they were faultless, his manners superb ; 
From all the "Spring Captains" you'd ne'er pick a finer out. 

" Spring Captains " are the young officers of the " Household troops," 
who promenade Pall-Mail during the season. 

But sadly this ev'ninghe steps o'er the kerb : 
For William Street blazes no longer for Dolly, 

With sweet music wedded to words of Tom Bowles ; 

T. B., editor of Va>tity Faif, who wrote the English libretto of" La 
Perichole." 

And dark seem the portals that lead to the " Folly," 
Where now maunders only old Sheridan Knowles. 

" La Perichole," was followed by a revival of one of Sheridan Knowles' 
plays. 



"Ah ! " cries the fond youth, "while I lounged at the 'Gaiety,' 
And gazed at the rhythmical legs of Kate Vaughan, 

The queen of English step-dancers of this quarter-century. 

And watched country curates contend with the laity 
In clapping their Connie — so nice, though a raw'un — 

The worship of " the child " Connie Gilchri.st was then at its height. 

I simply forgot that in all there's finality ; 

That even Sweet Farren's best antics may pall ; 

The ■' star " of the " Gaiety " burlesque company. 

That only in Dolly lives constant vitality. 

To quicken your pulse as you sit in your stall. 



40 "MRS AMOURS," 

And now that vile Shepperton's swallowed my Perichole, 

I had taken a cottage to rest in at Shepperton-on-Thames. 

And ' Women, dear Women,' no longer is heard, 
The feeling that happiness all is at Jericho'U 

Make me do something or other absurd. 
Oh, death ! I beseech, come take this wretch away, oh ! 

I'll shoot or I'll hang me, now Dolly has flown, 
Or else I will hie me to hunt Ketchewayo, 

The South African imbrogho was then going on. 

Or sit through ' The Lady of Lyons'— alone ! 
No ! Into the river! And then she'll be sure to see 

How I still mourn for those ev'nings so sweet ; 
For old Father Thames, with his usual courtesy, 

Will bear my damp corpse to her miniature feet ! " 



After-thought. — A chapter of contemporary dramatic history, this. The experimental 
bard, if he knew the " consequences " of this poem, would take a lesson and write this kind of 
thing, instead of indulging in " the premeditated verbiage of irresponsible amorousness." 



LONELY, BUT NOT ALONE. 



Note. — This poem celebrates in verse (though retrospectively) the most charming epoch of an 
affaire — i.e.^ the moment at which one has made up one's mind that one is quite content and 
wants nothing more ; the point at which nothing jars upon one, and the word "contentment" has 
not become, as it usually does, later on, a synonym for "" carelessness." 



The silvery Thames was flcjwing past, 

There at our feet it hurried by, 
And in delight too dear to last 

Prophecy after the event is a privilege of bards. 

We sat together — She and I ; 
And if no words between us went, 
It was tliat we were quite content. 

I'ide La Fontaine, concerning the ostrich. 

But one short month since fate, or chance. 
To where she was my steps had ta'en. 

Since I liad dared to break a lance 

With "someone else :" — had dared disdain. 

And found, ere Doll an hour I knew, 

A tender woman, sweet and true. 

Oh ! happy days that followed then, 

When by tlie river-side we sat, 
And talked of future glories, when 

The laurel wreath should spoil my hat ; 

He was a rising journalist at the time ; he has since risen. 

And in that sky of Hope, serene 
My gentle Dolly reigned as Queen. 



42 "MES AMOURS." 

All now is gone ; and I am here 
Alone, three thousand miles away, 

To chronicle the social leer, 
To watch the social idiots play. 

He regulated the columns of a celebrated " society paper." 

While Yankee dandies draw the cork 
To Dolly's health in far New York. 

His choicest anathema was always reserved for " the land of the brave, 
etc." 



Shall I despair, shall I let pass, 

The hopes on which alone I live ? 
Consent to write me down an ass. 

No longer for that laurel strive. 
Ah, no! I never can forget ; 
With her I will be happy yet. 

This sounds familiar. 

I see her smile across the sea, 
I hear her voice within my soul ; 

If this sort of thing, apparently easy to bards, were to come into gen- 
eral use, the telephone and phonograph would be badly " out of it." 

Her clinging kisses come to me. 

Though leagues of sea between us roll ; 
She sits beside me while I write. 
And in my dreams we'll meet to-night. 

Excellent ! and most convenient. 



After-thought. — Strange— is it not ? — that just as de^th produces inflation (physically and 
biographically), when one has parted from a bard, he never celebrates anything but the roses of 
life. Possibly the rose, being dry, is easily preserved, whilst the thorns, being fortunately brit- 
tle, break offer get absorbed by the blotting-paper of every-day existence. 



RETROSPECTIVE. 



Note. — This, again, is a grand adaptable title, like " After ; " and I strongly suspect that 
it is a patent-adaptable poem, suitable for sending round promiscuously to ladies who go to the 
theatre with, or are escorted home from balls by, bards. The rhythm, which may be described 
as "broken-tooth-comb metre," is strongly recommended to bards whose feelings are too strong 
for their scansion. Tumultuously pretty, nevertheless. 



There 
At tlie door she stood, 
So passing fair 
In the halo of her rich brown hair ; 

This line must alter to suit color of hair. 

What was it 
In her steadfast eyes 

Good universal description of eyes. 

That reached the tear-well in my heart, 

Bade the drops rise, 
And made it sad to part ? 

Goodness knows ! 



She did not love ; 
She vvould not say she cared : 

What was the use after the preceding line ? 

And yet 
Her look confessed regret, 
And had I dared 

Osec toujotirs ! 

To seize her in my arms 
And kiss her brow, 



44 



"MES AMOURS." 

To break the spell her charms 

Had thrown around me ; 
And tell her how 
I loved her — how she found me 

Sick of life and daily fret 

Till we had met ; 

I have heard this, />assim J They all say this and we all like it, and 
believe it. 

Had I kissed her soul away, — 

Till she were fain 
To say 
Whether her heart were touched or nay, 

Though it were pain 

To part, it were not vain 

To hope that we might meet again. 

Seems almost a pity he did vot dare. If I remember rightly, he didn't. 
One can't rely on the after-utterances of bards as statements of fact. 



I see her there, 
Like some fair statue stand, 
With streaming hair, 

This is milikely. 

And shoulders bare. 

This is not. 

A living grace from some " antique." 



And I can only kiss her hand, 
And once more 
Look into her eyes ; 
She will not speak ; 
And now I close, 
With sighs, 
The door : 

They must have been powerful sighs. 



RETROSPECTIJ^E. 45 

And through the night 
I watch her light 
Above, 
And marii 
Her sliadow as it comes and Sfoes. 



Alas ! the light is out, 

And all is dark : 
Will she doubt 
My love ? 

What else can she do, if the above is a reliable tabulation of the 
" premises " ? 



After-thought. — One feels inclined to quote Soyer or Francatelli, and say, in conclusion : 
" Flavour to taste, add coloring-matter and ornament, and serve hot on clean paper." A 
charming composition, however ; and as the writer is the author of several charming libretti, I 
recommend it to him for reproduction as a recitative. That is, if he hasn't already scattered it 
around too freely. 



LES ACCROCHE-COEURS. 



Note. — Written when it was the fashion to wear little curls at the outlying districts of one's 
hair, which we called accroclie-cceurs. 



We neither said a word, and yet 

Heart spoke to heart, as side by side 

This garrulity of bards' hearts is most convenient. 

We Stood that day — ^together : 
No strangers, for we often met ; 

But still there seemed a gnlf as wide 

As May and winter weather. 

He wants a word here. 

I heard lier breatliing come and go : 

It can't have been me — I'm not asthmatic. 

My own heart beat so very fast, 

I thought it must be brealving. 
Whether she cared for me or no 
I could not tell, but hoped at last 

Love in her soul was wakinsr. 



Her hand grew warmer, clasping mine, 

Not even a bard ought to tell his mistress that her hands are 
" clammy." 

And when our glances met, her eyes, 
I fancy, sparkled brighter ; 
But Love as yet had shown no sign : 

I felt a tender, vague " surprise," 

And clasped her hand yet tighter. 



LES ACCROCHE-CCEURS. 47 

The perfume of her scented hair, 
The contact of lier silken dress, 

Thrilled all my veins to bursting. 

ga-yest! 

She would not speak— I did not dare ; 
For one love-draught, in sore distress, 

My anguished soul was thirsting. 

And thus we stood, each other near, 
Without a word ; our eyes were bright. 

Than eyes of love far blinder ; 

I thoui-ht this idea was exploded in these days, when, as Tiffany says, 
"The price is legibly marked on every article." 

And as I turned in dull, cold fear, 
Her profile came against the light — 

The window was behind her. 

And there, beneath her looped-up hair. 
The little curls peeped out and smiled — 
And yet no word was spoken. 

I could not help myself, but there 

I clasped her round, my darling Child ; 

And feeling now nor doubt nor fear, 
I kissed her neck, and little ear ; 

And as I pressed her finger-tips, 

She turned and gave me up her lips— 

How shocking '. 

And so the ice was broken. 

After-thought.— This poem should have been inspired by a return from a ball, when He is 
just saying good-by. If I were writing this scene for a play, I should describe it thus : A 
little low cottage in a quaint garden. Though the month is July, at this early hour the air is 
sweet and fresh. The garden-door, swinging to, shuts out the London street and life. Once 
through the porch and open door, they stand in the hall, in that deadly quiet 'tvv.xt dying night 

and living day, and take the first step toward making each other happy or miserable-most 

probably the latter. I wonder if the real inspiration was anything like this V 



REVERIE. 



Note. — I found this on my desk one night on my return from a theatre. It was evidently 
scribbled between naps with which He beguiled the time till my return. He will doubtless be 
horrified to see such a hasty effort in print. INIoral : Put not thy trust in Dolls. 



With all the chill of friendship in mine eyes, 

Yes, it IS always there. 

With all the fire of longing in my soul, 

Most satisfactorily hidden. 

I lie alone — for you are gone — and watch 
The cinders, busy in their idleness, 
Writhe into wreaths and stumble into shapes. 
To fall once more and leave no trace behind 
Of the weird fancies of the dying fire : 

Charming ! I've used this myself somewhere else. 

Its last confession — as it were — before 
It crumbles into dry, decadent dust ! 

Who was the Sage who, in rough days of old, 

(lod knows. I don't know anything. 

When flight of time was marked alone by lust 
Of life and near approach of chillsome death. 
Said that, of all things dangerous and bad. 
The worst was when a woman thought alone ? 

I hear that this was Juvenal. Probably ! he was nothing if he wasn't 
rude to ladies. 

He spoke in wanton ignorance that man, 
Left solitary with his own drear thoughts. 

Is worse a thousand-fold ; for he blasphemes 
The world and all things, dreaming of his past. 

My own pocket Manfred. 



RE1/ERIE. 49 

To lie and listen to the dying voice 

Of dying day, in the great city's din 

Hushed incoherent 'neath the folds of night ; 

To lie, amid the cushions and the silks 

Of your divan, and wonder whether it 

Would speak of things more strange, could it but speak, 

Curiosity. 

Than all these memories, which start from naught, 
Thrown on the screen of thought in bold relief, 
Cast by the magic-lantern of the Soul, 



Wild thoughts of Days that had not any Night, 

How sleepy I must have been ! This would misleai.1 people as to my 
mode of existence. 

Of tingling joy in Life that knew not Death, 
Of hours of Pleasure where no thought of Pain 
Crept in to make the pleasure dear to us ; 
Of captive hours, chained in the bond of eyes 
That shone on us alone, and bade us drown 
Of such conceits as " Time " and " Space " the thoughts. 
When we lay drugged in lethargy of love, 
And fancied our unconsciousness was peace ! 



To lie, contrasting with our happy hours, 

The wretched ones when those that we have loved 

Seemed cold, or disappointment chilled the fire 

Too many chills, my friend — you'll get influenza. 

Of longing in our hearts and bade despair, 
Distrust, and disenchantment take its place ; 
Of moments when our hearts have beaten high 
With wild expectancy of joys supreme ; 
Of how those moments faded into dull. 
Cold misery, when Nothingness ensued. 
4 



50 ''MEs amours:' 

Ah, well ! why mock the solitary hours 

With thoughts like these ? Rise up, contemplate 

The Present, with its dazzling brilliancy 

That shines into our eyes and bids us cease 

To think at all of Future things or Past ! 

Ah, there ! Omar Whayyam ! 

The " now" is good ; take heed lest you, by calm. 
Dispassionate reflection, 'neath the rose. 

See the sharp thorn of Disillusionment, 

Very sound philosophy — always avoid the thorns. 

As through a murky lens th'astronomer 
Sees spots upon the sun ! 

\The folloviing 7iote ivas />inncd to tJie J>oetn.\ 
Dearest Dolly : Don't leave me alone with myself in a place where you have been I I get 
upon my nerves and think of things that never have been, till my mind wanders away and leaves 
my body mad. Vours, 



After-thought. — This boy was possessed by the original idea that he was not, never could 
be, jealous. Oh, Vanity, thy name is nut always woman ! 



AFTER. 



Note. — This should have been called "An Interlude." I think it is in the nature of the skele- 
ton-key — adaptable to the dead-locks of flirtation. Poem suitable for sending to a loved one 
before going out of town, where one may find someone one likes better. Its great advantage is 
that if the above does not take place, one can triumphantly point to the last verse, and, working 
the " misunderstanding " racket, start fresh. 



I FELT, long ago, that my day-dream was past ; 

But I know 'twould have softened the sting of my pain 
Had you told vt\e yoitrself ihaX I'd wakened at last, 

Had I heard your sweet voice only once, once again. 

Introductory verse easily explained, if necessary, by referring to some 
casual tiff on some trivial subject. 



'Twas your cold, cruel silence that taught me despair, 
When no word echoed mine as I whispered your name ; 

Your answer, unspoken, was cruel to bear. 

And I left you in silence — ah ! was I to blame ? 

Clever, because completely unanswerable. Nothing to lay hold of, but 
effect all the same, viz.. '• he left me in silence" — explanation might 
have been too definitive. 



And now it's all over : I know 'tis too late, 

And I know ere we meet that 'twill be but to part ; 

But grant me one sign, for this pain 'twill abate 

If it come irovayonr lips, ivova your hand, from jw/r heart. 

A thoroughly Jesuitical verse, suggestive of the gentleman who said 
'' I go," and went not. Note the artful italics m the fourth line. 



52 "MES amours:' 

If only you'll tell me that thus you will be, 
Ever silent perhaps, yet in silence the same ; 

If my soul turns in mute adoration to Thee, 
If I love you in silence — ah ! am I to blame ? 

After writing this — go! Don't wait to be told. The prevision of the 
second line saves a world of trouble. 



After-thought. — A most useful poem, and adaptable to nearly every stage of a togiiade. It 
also has the supreme advantage that it may be sent even after the lapse of years, and in expla- 
nation of innumerable infidelities. 



EROTIC CHESTNUTS. 



Note. — This was written me just as this vohime was going to press, by a friend who looked 
over some of the MSS., and to whom I remarked on the sameness of their expressions. He was 
touched at a sore point evidently, for he sat down and wrote me the foUowmg, under the above 
title. 

You tell me all men say the same 

Mendacious things when they adore ! 

They do. 

If so, you ought to lay the blame 

On all these men who've loved before : 

There'd be plenty to go round. 

For surely you've no right to scold 

Me when I say that " Only you 
Have understood me " — if it's old, 

A male version of thejeinine uicomprise fiction. 

It need not therefore be untrue ! 

Not 7iecessarily. 

And when I say that '■'' I unbend 
Alone for you, and sJiow myself. 

This is almost— eh ? What ? 

You need not cease to be my friend 
Because 'twas said by some poor elf 

It was. 

Who doubtless also said what I 

Say now to you, that '■'■Any day 
I'd gladly lay me do7vn and die 

If you should find me in your ivay ! " 

Vide After-thought on p. 28. 

And possibly e'enyouve denied 

The trutli of statements such as this : 

I have. 



54 "MES AMOURS." 

I'm only liappy hy your side ! " 

This would be all right if one never saw them with anyone else. 

And '•'' Loving yoti is simply bliss ! " 

A veritable jiiarron glace. 

'Tis possible these have been said 
By men flirtatious, bad, and bold, 

They have. 

But, oh ! I trust you'll not be led 

To doubt tiieni noiv — because they're old ! 



Envoy. 

Now listen to me, and henceforward be wise : 
'"'' I never have loved any woman but you " 

Was remarked hy Fere Kd.2i'ca in Paradise, 

Since when — as a statement — it's been untrue ! 



After-thought. — " None but the brave deserve the fair," and this man deserves anything 
— even immortalization as one of " Mes Amours," though a frivolous and irreverent one. 



MY OWN 



A CONSOLATION. 



Note.— Oh ! ivhy, when my inmost soul yearns for the harmony of graceful, flowing rhythm, 
will my pen only jingle the monotone of rhyme ? My spirit prays for Pegasus, and is confronted 
by the Rhyming dictionary : Heart, part, start, dart, tart, smart ; love, dove, glove ; stove, move, 
prove ; and so on. My rhymes remind me of the maddening musician mercilessly miscalled, 
who thinks, because with the forefinger of the right hand he can pick out a tune in the treble, "The 
claims of concomitant bass ! Have nothing to do with the case, Tra-la ! " and so continues till, to 
the educated ear, agony reaches the end of the gamut in consecutive fifths and octaves, and 
desperation supervenes. Thus, for instance : — 



Death and I walk side by side, 
He the Bridegroom, I tlie bride ; 
He whom I've so oft defied 
Will no longer be denied ; 
Whilst between us, yawning wide, 
Lies a Gulf — a rushing tide 
Of a Fear I dare not hide : 
Dismal Fate, to be allied 
To a Spectre who must guide 
Evermore my every Stride. 

\_Chatigt: of yhyine, —thank heaven .'] 

Many in Health still share my Fate : 
Soul bound to Soul, in Bonds of Hate ; 
Life linked to Life, not Mate to Mate ; 
Their Chaunt eternal, " Too late ! Too late ! 

\_Once more ;~thank yon .'] 



58 "MES AMOURS." 

I'd sooner my grisly Bridegroom keep, 

Than change with lives like this, all Strife ; 

For I, too, have known what it is to weep. 

In my Soul, at the sound of the words " My wife. 



After-thought. — Why should an initial error trammel one within the sordid boundaries of 
similarity of metre ? Bards, let us not be slaves ! Let us, like the ostrich, stop our ears to criti- 
cism, and do as seemeth, not best, but easiest to us ! Also N.B.: — Without the Capitals this 
Poem would be nowhere ! 



A WORD OF INTERPOLATED APOLOGY. 

The following two poems (pardon — rhymes !) were written 
after reading a volume entitled "Passionate Poems." I had 
fallen in love, and with me the divine disease of Eros lasts, as 
a rule — let us be accurate — about six hours and three-quar- 
ters ; and being, as a natural consequence, full of fervid frenzy, 
it occurred to me that the sacred fire had entered into my 
breast (I believe that is the point it usually attacks). I was 
deliberate, as a poet should be, with my preparations. I 
thought that if I could mix up the words " Love," " Hell," 
"Desire," "Hate," "Soul," "God," "Love-drouth," and 
"Limbs" — all with capital letters [vn/c preceding specimen] — 
together with my own yearning agony, I, too, might make 
happy homes desolate and uncomfortable. In the throes of 
this particular passion, which lasted close on seven hours, I 
"threw off" — I believe that is the expression sacred to dogs 
and doggerel — the following, and sent them per messenger- 
boy to the Object in the earlv morning, hoping he had slept 
well, and that after his night's rest he would be strong enough 
to bear the shock. I am not altogether " satisfied with their 
manner," but "there's a deal of pleasure" in stringing them 
together. 



MY QUESTION. 



Note. — I forgot to say that this Object was the Oriental who always called me Mahmoure 
Vide p. 22. 

I WONDER if when I am dead and cold, 

My Spirit can visit tliis Eartli again ? 
If so, I will come when the night is old, 

And tap, and tap, at your window-pane. 



I wonder if you will consider it odd 
That Miihrnoure's spirit should wander 

So far from its home in the land of God, 
Which is yonder, far distant yonder ? 

I wonder if you will expect me, dear, 

In the soft gray chill of that early morn ; 

I wonder if you will reject me, dear, 

And turn me away for some love new-born ? 



After-thought. — The Object tola me this was not up to my usual standard of idiotcy, but 
that I had cribbed it from " Violet Fane." I hadn't. I swear, but I felt so flattered that I wrote 
a lot more. If I have cribbed unconsciously. I trust that the beau'iful poetess will forgive me, 
and feel gratified at receiving my drop of flattery to swell the ocean of adulation in which she 
floats in her everlasting youth. 



HIS CONFESSOR. 



Note.— This was written to re-assure a boy who had confessed to me some of the crimes ol 
his fevered youth, and then was stricken with fear lest he should have hurt my feelings and 
driven me away. 

Now, she said, let me confess you : 

Pour from your heart all its woe ; 
Speak, and let no fear possess you — 

Half of your sorrow I know. 

Always a safe thing to say, and very encouraging to a juvenile adorer. 

Come, place your head on my breast, love, 

Here, take my hand in your own ; 
Tell me you feel more at rest, love — 

Tell me your sorrow has flown. 

The conceit of it is lovely, even to myself ! 



Silent ? Why, wliat do you fear, love. 
That your story miglit drive me away } 

Not God himself — do you hear, love ? — 
Could take me, if you said " Stay ! " 

This is a good breezy statement, calculated to kill on sight. If you an- 
nounce the perpetration of an impossibility, let it be a good one, or 
the psychological effect is nowhere. 



After-thought.— The statement contained in the Note is not la veriUvraie, but la. 
verite imaginaire. The rhymes were written after reading a romance called, if I remember 
rightly, " The Suicide of Sylvester Gray," which impressed me a little at the time. Still, there 
was a lurking intention to convey an idea of the illimitable love which I might be capable of 
under proper treatment. Vide note on manufacture of chains, p. 37. 



A FRAGMENT. 



Note. — This title has always struck me as ingenious, like " From the Choctaw " or " A 
Thought at Seringapatam." It absolutely covers the ground, and is an excuse for a doggerel 
of which you don't know the meaning yourself, and can safely defy other people to discern. It 
also has the inestimable advantage of allowing the bard to leave off at any moment when the dif- 
ficulty of the subject becomes a burden. Therefore, the Blessings of a Bard (for what they are 
worth) on the inventor of "A Fragment ! " 



Do I wisli we'd never met ? 
Do I wish I could forget ? 
As I ask, mine eyes grow wet 
With a dew of sweet regret ; 
For jo!/r eyes are wondrous fine, 
And they looked straight into mine, 
With agaze that was — divine 

[And deceptive]. 
And they said, "I love you well. 
Better far than I can tell. 
For your love my soul I'd sell ! 

[You're so receptive.] 
For you listen to my woes 
As I sit here, at yoin- toes, 
Clad in such bewild'ring hose, 
Till I tliink of aiitrc-cJioscs ; 
Then I sink upon my knees 
By your side, by slow degrees, 
And lay my head here — if you please ? 

[I'm not expective.] 



A FRAGMENT. 62, 

I will treasure every sigh 

That you breathe when I am nigli, 

And you know for them I'd die.'' 

[I'm so collective.] 
Still, the question will arise 
[Very much to my surprise, 
For I'm quoted, oh ! so wise 
And so clever for my size], 
Do I wish we'd never met ? 
Do I wish I could forget ? 
And my soul replies, " Not yet ; 

Till we part 
Let us yet enjoy the thrill 
Of this pleasure- — madd'ning still, 
Let me give you all you will 

Of my heart. 
Let that heart to yours be near, 
Let me stifle all my fear 
Of that future time so drear. 
When you've left me lonely, dear. 
Don't remind me of the debt 
I must pay, while you beget 
Other loves — but oh ! not yet, 

Not yet awhile ! 
For my heart with hunger cries, 
Craves the food your hand denies — 

Would you like a few more lies, 

By the mile ? " 



After-thought. — This Fragment was my first offence, and was written the day after my 
" seven-hour passion" had announced his intention of striking camp and going " farther on." 
(I don't remember if he carried out his intention— I'll ask him.) Really that extra fifteen min- 
utes has much to answer for. Oh, sympathy ! ! ! Oh, Plato ! ! ! you've more to answer for 
than Eros. 



THE TRAGEDY. 



Note. — I started out on this poem firmly believing myself to be befriended by the Tragic 
Muse. Alas ! I was mistaken. I presume that I had some idea in my head when I started 
this lucubration — I will not do myself the injustice of believing otherwise — but that idea inge- 
niously evaded me at an early stage of the game. However, guessing, as a holiday pastime, is 
salubrious ; maybe some good friend will guess for me. 



He came to my room in the dead of night, 

And all around was so still ; 
My heart palpitated in ghastly plight — 

I knew he would have his will. 

I wondered at first was I certain quite, 

Did I dream, or was I ill. 
When a full, soft ray of the moon's pale light 

Streamed over my window-sill ? 

His terrible eyes had a look so bright 

That I feigned to lie asleep. 
He murmured, rather than spoke, " I am right, 

I am right ! my vow I'll keep. 
So you thought you could hide by taking flight 

Whilst I was out on the deep, 
And you doubtless jeered at my wretched plight ; 

But now it's your turn to weep. 
So it is for the man who betrayed me — 

As he sowed, so shall he reap ; 
Very nearly his debt is repaid me, 

As close to your bed I creep." 



THE TRAGEDY. 65 

He spoke very low, yet the words meant Death 

As plainly as tho' 'twere outcried ; 
And nearer he crept, till I felt liis breath 

On my cheek, then all hope died. 



For I knew I had naught to say 
That could purchase my Fate's delay ; 
There was nothing to do but pray 
That salvation might come my way. 



Should I beg him his hand to stay? 
No ! I knew he would say me nay. 
So in horror I trembling lay 
'Neath those eyes of glittering gray. 



He raised his hand, and the terrible steel 
Shone clear in the moon's pale beam ; 

The plunge of the blade I began to feel, 
Then I uttered a piercing scream. 

Again, again I shrieked, till waking, 
I found a picture I held was breaking, 
And pieces of glass 
Were scattered, alas ! 
All over the bed, 
From the foot to the head. 
And my fingers were red 
With the gore that was shed 
In that terrible fight. 
In the dead of the night. 
With a ghost of my own home-making. 
5 



66 "MES AMOURS. 



Moral. 



Gentle reader, take warning by me, and beware ! 
Never take to your bed any dangerous toys, 
Such as pictures (for instance) of good-looking boys ; 
Or, at least, if you iiu/si, take the glass from the frame, 
Or you run a fair risk of just doing the same 
As I did — and then have a bad nightmare. 
For, if you refrain from removing the glass, 
And lie on the picture, you'll find it disas- 
Trous to nerves, — and have a bad nightmare. 

Better still, if you'd flee from this mare of the night, 
I'd suggest circumspection giui supper ; 

Then read something light. 

Effervescing and bright, 

Such as Browning, or Spencer, or Tupper. 



After-thought. — In confidence I will admit that, notwithstanding pretended humility 
in my inmost heart, I believed I had at last found the material for a great and serious epic. It 
is needless to say how soon I became conscious of my fatal infatuation. Luckily, when I 
reached the part where the gentleman should have done something tragic— and I could not 
think what to make him do, though I kept his hand up till he must have been quite exhausted 
— I suddenly remembered my Ingoldsby (bless him !) and rescued myself A la Fragment. 

p_ S.— Nothing but the despairing application of my publisher for more "copy" could 
have induced me to inflict this on my reader. 



TO UNACTED AUTHORS. 

November 28, 1887. 

Having been fortunate enough to have sold my play 
"Fashion," to the lessees of Wallack's Theatre, it may be 
that a few remarks on the subject of launching a play will 
not be considered superfluous by those interested in dramatic 
authorship. If I am looked upon as lucky in having secured 
such a production for my first effort, let it not be supposed 
that the advantage was obtained without the expenditure of 
vast ingenuity. 

Four years of weary disappointment formed the prelimi- 
nary stage. Finally, broken down in health, nay, on the verge 
of the grave, I at last induced our much-respected manager, 

Mr. C , to read my play. In the preceding two years he 

had got through two acts — an act a year. During the third 
year he read the third act, expressed much admiration, and 
desired me to send the remainder at once. I did, but Drama- 
tophobia had set in, and no power could induce the poor 
gentleman to approach acts four and five. It was then, and 
not till then, that I brought to bear that merciless treatment 
which should never be resorted to but in extreme cases. 
There are a variety of means employed to obtain a hearing. A 
few hints from my own experience will not, I trust, be con- 
sidered — to use the language of the XXXIX. articles — super- 
erogatory. My remarks will be brief, if my words are long. 

I do not propose to dissertate upon the many ////successful 
means, but will dispose of them all by saying, "The club is no 
longer used." I place my method before the reader in the 



68 "MES AMOURS." 

hope it may prove of service to those struggling genii whose 
efforts would doubtless conduce to fame but for the effete 
and turgid-minded manager. What England is to the op- 
pressed Irish, what America is to that gentle, ill-used product 
of an alien soil— the Anarchist, so is the manager to the un- 
acted dramatist ! 

My method, as shown in the annexed lines — witli the accom- 
panying newspaper-paragraph — is infallible, for the reason 
that, as in certain physical diseases, heroic treatment is neces- 
sary ; so, I take it, the mental condition of the manager must be 
dealt with — no gentle measures, such as leaving MSS. at the 
door. The manager must be attacked when he is weak, help- 
less, alone. No quarter should be given to this despotic ty- 
rant, who so frequently insists on managing his own business, 
and purchasing only tliat which to him seems best, to the det- 
riment, if not the suppression, of the rising dramatist. 

This desire on the part of the manager to use his own dis- 
cretion should be met at the outset by the most virulent oppo- 
sition. It is a base, sordid, pernicious abuse of power, which 
must not be tolerated, interfering, as it does, with the rights of 
the working author. 

Therefore, I say, engage not with these vicious animals — 
managers — in kindly, courtly warfare, but strike boldly! strike, 
as I said before, not with tlie club, but with the more deadly, 
insidious poison, as prescribed, which has the advantage of 
killing on sight or obtaining a hearing. What I mean is that 
after all these years of unavailing effort, I sent him the fol- 
lowing amazing production. 



D. C. 



Note. — ^The following verses brought to a triumphant denouement the variegated diplomacy 
oi years. They recount with the progressive detail of the English " Blue book," or " Congres- 
sional Record" the stages which led to the dramatic couj> d'etai of last May. List, O ye who 
would bow before a curtain in response to the call for " Author."' 



Said D to C , my play you see, 

Upon the desk before you ; 
Said C to D , my misery 

Began the day I saw you. 

This, like most statements of fact, was uncivil, but incontrovertible. 

D. C. [Da Capo.] 



Said D to C , you'll soon be free, 

My work no more shall fret you ; 
D take the woman ! said poor C , 

I wish I'd never met you. 

He also said he'd have given a hundred dollars for me to have taken it 
to someone else. 

D. C. [Deuced Civil.] 



Then C sat down, with lurid frown. 

Which melted to a smile ; 
And as he read, resentment fled 

Before the siren's wile. 

After this, I took it away — U faut se /aire valoir. Alas ! it returned 
to him stronger by two acts. 

D. C. [Do Come to it.] 



70 "MES AMOURS." 

Poor C (they say), in blank dismay, 

Took up acts five and four ; 
He said, I'd say, I hate tliis play, 
But I like it more and more. 

This was nice, if it inas only said because I was a " picturesque ruin,' 
in the matter of heaUh. 

D. C. [Distinctly Complimentary.] 



Said C , I'm gay! I've read your play, 

And very good I find it ; 
The best I've seen for years I ween, 

And I guess there's cash behind it. 

Historians tell us that after this he went to a place called the "Hoff- 
man House" and "stood things." 

D. C. [Dollars Continually.] 



To C , D cried, I'm gratified, 

To think you're pleased, dear friend ; 

And C replied, I'm satisfied 

Your trouble's at an end. 

This was on the principle, one for you and two for me. 

D. C. [Don't Congratulate yourself.] 

In this MS. there's great success. 

Be patient as you've been ; 
I trust bad health, with all this wealth, 

Will vanish from the scene. 

So did I. 

D. C. [Dolly Coincided.] 



After-thought [in doggerel this time] . — 

You're free you see, said D to C- 

To try before you buy it ; 



D. a 71 

I will, said C , if o'er the sea, 

No English critics guy it. 

A dying man clutches at a straw. 

D. C. [Devilish Cautious.] 



Mom/. 

The weasel cannot be caught asleep, says the natural his- 
torian, but I once heard of an animal of this kind that kept 
his eyes so wide open that he got dust thrown into them. 



TRAGIC DEATH. 

At four o'clock yesterday, the popular manager, Mr. 

C , was found dead in his office. Assistance was 

summoned ; an autopsy was about to be held, when the 
Coroner discovered the above epic poem clasped in the 
dead man's hand. On examination, the Coroner said no 
further inquest was necessary. Death must have been 
instantaneous. 

The jury added a rider to their verdict, expressing a 
hope that the Legislature would be shortly petitioned to 
take steps to protect defenceless managers and editors 
from the ravages of the rabid insect— whether indigenous 
or imported— known to science as Scrihlerii incipientes. 



POSTSCRIPT. 



If for a moment I madly believed 

That /could write verse, my mind is relieved 

Of doubt on that score; 
But of nonsense like this, if I only had time, 
And hadn't to bow to th' exigence of rhyme, 

I could write volumes more. 



S. D., 

Regretfully. 



AU REVOIR. 

Without wishing to render my apologies wearisome by- 
repetition, I must, in justice to myself, make one last effort. 
Those who only know me through the medium of this little 
book could scarcely help thinking me heartless, cruel, and 
unable to appreciate the sentiment I have been happy enough 
to inspire. This is not so. No girl has treasured her first 
love-letter with greater tenderness than have I my verses. 
They have many a time consoled me for some fancied slight, 
or for one of the many disappointments of my profession. I 
am not ashamed to say I have loved them better than jewels 
(perhaps it is lucky for me I did). Those who know me will 
understand that, in making a joke of the verses sent me, I do 
so in no spirit of raillery, but because I cannot help laughing 
at the most serious subjects in life ; and it is because I believe 
many persons will sympathize and laugh with me — at least, 
I hope so — that I have made this little book. 

Selina Dolaro. 



